Page 19 of Goalie's Obsession

She starts walking toward us.

Strolling, really. Like a fucking queen down the runway during Paris Fashion Week in those high heels. Her hair is up in one of those effortless twists that shows off the line of her neck. The long golden dress hugs every curve I’ve spent years trying not to think about.

There’s a new perfume clinging to her skin—something soft and floral with a sharp kick underneath.

It's not sweet.

It’ssharp. Like her.

And I’m toast.

“Well,” she says, strolling toward us like shedidn’tjust mentally undress me two seconds ago. “This is gonna be interesting.”

Understatement of the goddamn year.

Suddenly I forget every pre-planned media answer I’ve ever used, because she walks right past me without a second glance.

I pivot slowly, tracking her movement, completely useless now that she's flipped some internal switch I can't un-flip.

She checks in with a volunteer at the front table, pretending to straighten a stack of name placards like it’s the most important job in the building.

It’s not. It’s performative. SheknowsI’m watching her.

So dammit, I watch anyway.

The way she moves in that dress… graceful, deliberate, pure fucking sex wrapped in gold. She should come with a goddamn warning label.

I can’t decide if I want to worship her or ruin her for brushing me off like that.

Probably both.

Because Lucy Daniels is all class, and I’d sell my soul just to have one damn night with her.

A beat of silence settles behind me.

Too quiet.

I glance sideways. And sure enough, Ethan’s watching me.

Not laughing. Not talking.

Just… watching.

His smile's still there, but it’s different now. More edge than amusement.

“You good, man?” I ask, tossing on the casual smirk that gets me through most media scrums.

He lifts a brow, like he's not sure if he wants to call me out or wait for me to dig the hole myself. “You just looked like you were about to propose with your eyes.”

I snort. “Fuck off. You just wish I looked at you like that.”

He huffs a laugh, but I can see it—the shift.The protective big-brother energy stirring like smoke.

My stomach twists, just once, before I shut it down.

Because he’s not wrong. And I’m not sorry.

His sister is still standing there like she’s the only thing that matters in this room full of million-dollar donors and professional athletes.

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